


to whom one may

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Military, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 03:18:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17800082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Ian arrives to take command over a unit. And meets someone unusual.





	to whom one may

Ian is torn from his doze by shouts, heard even over the engine of the rover. He thanks the driver and scrambles out, without even checking that his gray is all right, gripping his staff — collapsed for now. He hasn’t slept for days, his nights disturbed by nightmares: barking of guns and sizzle of electricity twisting in an obscene dance with Sam’s shouts at Brandon. And the sight of a burned body, so tiny in death.

Technomancers are not pretty in death — especially when it’s death by their own hand.

And Anne was so pretty in life.

She was younger than Ian.

The heat slaps him on the face.

The camp is small, an arrangement of tents like any other. Sometimes it feels that he’s visiting the same camp over and over and over, stuck in the loop.

A soldier is running to his side, but Ian only nods to them, walking towards the noises.

He comes to the open area between several tents — where someone is kicking a body lying on the ground. Soldiers of various ranks and state of dress are standing round, watching with impassive faces.

The one administering the kicking is short and sturdy.

“Будешь еще кошмарить рядовых,” they say in a singsongy voice, as though the exertion is not stealing their breath, “я тебя на куски порву.”

“What’s happening here?” Ian demands.

Several faces turn to him — and ripples go through the area. It feels like through the whole camp, too. They draw up. The wind dies out. Only the figure on the ground is groaning.

The one to look at Ian the last is the kicker.

They have beautiful eyes. Eyes of someone who is used to assessing the situation and calculating risks. “You must be our new brave commander. Captain Mancer, I assume?” they drawl. In their friendly-polite manner Ian senses hidden bared teeth.

“Captain Ian Mancer,” he introduces himself in an even tone.

Nobody hurries to salute — or to help the one on the ground.

“Private Anton Rogue, at your service. We were having a little chat with Sergeant Ward,” they kick the one on the ground again, and momentarily their handsome face is twisted in pure hatred. “Sergeant Regin Ward, Captain, has taken a habit of harassing young newcomers. I was explaining to him that this is not how a sergeant must behave.” They look up right at Ian. “Is it?”

He is measured. This moment will determine where this tour will go. He has to do it right, for Anne. As right as can be when he’s expected to lead people to kill other people.

He nods. “It is certainly not how a sergeant should behave. I would like you to give me the tour of the camp, Private.”

Anton grins, feral, vicious. “Right away, sir. Just pick the,” another kick, “trash.”

***

“Аннушка была хорошим человеком. Хорошим людям здесь не место. Они или становятся плохими, или ломаются.”

It’s the first words out of Anton’s mouth when he comes to Ian’s side in the “tour”.

“Себя вы не считаете хорошим человеком?”

Ian takes a cigarette pack out of a pocket and offers to Anton. Anton takes one smoke without a question, producing a lighter, closing his eyes when he takes a drag. He has beautiful eyes and very light brows.

“Я только что на ваших глазах избил сержанта,” Anton says at last, breathing out. “Хороший человек так бы не поступил.”

Sergeant Regin Ward is a sadist, transferred from another unit under a technomantic officer’s command in hope that said officer wouldn’t have any problems reprimanding the sergeant.

Instead of a reprimand, Sergeant Regin Ward has gotten four broken ribs, a broken nose, and a slight concussion from a private six years younger than him.

Anton has been in the Army for a year. He’s seventeen.

Ian knows it only because he has asked from others while Anton was away.

He can’t place Anton’s accent properly, but it’s something of the Ophirian Slums.

“Жалко вашу сестричку, капитан,” Anton says, puffing out a cloud. “Она к нам относилась как к людям.” He kicks a rock out of the way.

Ian notes that Anton calls Anne Ian’s “sister”. Anton knows more than he lets out.

“Почему вы не сержант, Антон?” Even though he knows the answer to that. The Army is a conservative structure.

Anton laughs. It’s a dry sound, like those noises moles produce when they are about to attack. “Да вот не хочется что-то, капитан. Стану кошмарить зелень — и придет такой одногодок и лицо мне попортит, а мое лицо мне еще пригодится.”

As a Rogue, under Majors, he wouldn’t become even a sergeant.

Anton frowns, finishing his smoke and carrying it carefully to the closest tin can that serves as a waste bin. “Да и читать я не умею.”

This strangely honest admission makes Ian stop for a moment. “Я могу вас научить.”

Anton shrugs, stuffing his fists into the pockets of his pants, squares his shoulders. Ian realizes that his bulk is mostly the uniform. He must be rather thin, still growing.

“Не. Бесполезно, капитан. Не то чтобы меня не учили — просто что-то в голове не то. Я не могу. Рядовым останусь. Хоть голова болеть не будет обо всяких бумажках.”

“И от сапога рядовых?”

Anton grins — and looks his age. “Вот именно!”


End file.
